An Unmentionable Murder (11 page)

Violet disappeared out the door, leaving them alone in a strained silence. Finally Earl spoke. “Penny for them?”

She shook her head. “Oh, it's nothing. I was just thinking of all you must have gone through these last few days.”

“It was nothing compared to the boys on the beaches. They're the real heroes. All we could do was try to blast the hell out of the enemy. It wasn't enough, but it was the best we could do.”

Very modest, considering the reports she'd heard about the planes flying dangerously low into enemy fire to carry out their mission. “And now what?”

He looked down at his glass, swirling the liquor around like a miniature whirlpool. “Paris. We have to liberate Paris. I'm afraid it's going to be a long, bloody battle before we get there.”

The fear that was always with her intensified. “I suppose you'll be flying missions into France and Germany.”

“I thought we weren't going to talk about the war.”

She pushed the fear away as best she could. “You're right, of course. You need this time to clear your mind and think about other things.”

“So tell me what you've been up to since I've been gone. No chasing after murderers, I hope?”

Elizabeth picked up her glass of sherry. “Well, now that you mention it . . .”

Earl's face changed and he quickly put down his glass. “Don't tell me—”

“I'm not exactly sure at this point.” Elizabeth took a sip of her sherry. “It could be murder, or it could be suicide.” She told him how Clyde Morgan's body was found in the ruins of the factory, and that the gun was in his right hand. “There are at least two people who might have had a reason to want him dead,” she finished, “and by all accounts, there could be more. He wasn't a very likeable man.”

“That doesn't mean they killed him.”

“No, but it seems strange to me that he would use his weakest hand to kill himself, and choose a place to do it where his body might not have been discovered for some time, if at all. People usually kill themselves to make a statement. They want to be found. Most of all, though, Clyde Morgan doesn't strike me as the sort of person who would kill himself. Bullies don't usually have that much courage.”

Earl nodded gravely, his gaze concentrated on her face. “I guess this means you're gonna go digging and getting into trouble again.”

“I don't go looking for trouble,” Elizabeth said with a touch of resentment. “I go looking for the truth. Unfortunately in most cases someone else is determined to keep the truth from me. That's where the trouble begins.”

“Exactly.” Earl reached for her hand. “I reckon I'd be wasting my breath to suggest you leave this one to the cops.”

“Absolutely.” She saw the concern in his eyes and smiled fondly at him. “Don't worry about me, Earl. I promise I'll be careful.”

“Where have I heard that before?” He lifted her hand and brushed her fingers with his lips. “I won't be around for the next few days to keep an eye on you. That worries me.”

“You have enough to worry about.” She curled her fingers around his, then hastily pulled them away from him when a tap on the door announced Violet's entrance.

“I'll be serving your meal in the dining room in five minutes,” she said, with an approving nod at Earl.

Elizabeth stared at her in surprise. “You're serving dinner? Where's Martin, then?”

Violet avoided her gaze. “In his room, I suppose. He looked tired, so I thought I'd let him rest. I don't mind serving dinner for once.”

“Great!” Earl said, rising to his feet. “I'm starving.” He held out a hand to assist Elizabeth. “What's for supper?”

“Corned beef rissoles.”

The door closed behind her, and Elizabeth almost laughed out loud at the expression on Earl's face.

“What the heck is that?”

“I have no idea. One of Violet's new recipes. She got a book of them from the Ministry of Food, and she's been trying them out on us. Some of them are quite disgusting, but considering how scarce good food has become, we have to make do with what we've got.”

“In that case, I'll pretend it's steak.” He took her hand and linked her arm through his. “As long as I have a lovely lady to keep me company, I don't care what I eat.”

She made a face at him. “That's what I love about you Americans. You truly know how to make a lady feel thoroughly appreciated.”

He dropped his voice to a low drawl that sounded suspiciously like a bad imitation of Humphrey Bogart. “I could make you feel a lot more appreciated, sweetheart, if you weren't so damn worried about protocol.”

She hid her agitation behind feigned indignation. “Why, Major! Whatever are you suggesting?”

He grinned, and his voice returned to normal. “As if you didn't know.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she made a big display of hustling him to the door. “Violet will be most annoyed with us if we're not seated when she serves the meal.”

“Then let's not keep Violet waiting.”

The light tone was still obvious, but she saw regret flicker across his face before he opened the door and allowed her to pass through. The observation depressed her. If only he knew how much she wanted to forget who she was, and why she had to guard her reputation so fiercely.

If only he knew that her heart ached to have more, and that each time she said good-bye she bitterly regretted the time that was being frittered away. She couldn't tell him, of course. For if he knew how close she was to thumbing her nose at protocol, he might very well be tempted to forget his promise to her, and that would be disastrous for all concerned.

Watching Violet serve the meal, Elizabeth felt uneasy about Martin's absence. Violet was hiding something, she could tell. For a fleeting moment she allowed herself to worry about that, but then she put it from her mind. This was her night, hers and Earl's, and she wasn't about to let anything spoil it.

Instead, she spent the precious evening listening to his stories of a wild, wonderful place called Wyoming, laughing at his jokes, and trying not to fall any deeper in love with him than she already was.

True to his word, he ate Violet's latest concoction with as much relish as if he were devouring a steak. Watching him chase the slightly burned, odd-shaped rissoles around his plate, Elizabeth's heart warmed with gratitude for his willingness to make the most of every situation. Just being with him was always such a joy, and if she had to be content with that, then so be it.

When Violet came in to collect the empty plates, Earl handed his up to her with a smile that brought a pink glow to the crotchety housekeeper's cheeks. “That was swell, Violet,” he announced, with a heartiness that sounded quite sincere. “There's nothing like a good home-cooked meal to make a man forget his troubles.”

“Glad you liked it,” Violet muttered. “It was just corned beef, mixed up with mashed potatoes and veggies.”

“Very tasty.” Earl smacked his lips. “Reminded me of the hamburgers back home, or maybe sausage patties.”

“Hamburgers?” Elizabeth stared at him. “What on earth is that?”

Violet paused in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. “Isn't that what we call mince?”

Now Earl seemed confused. “Mince?”

“Minced-up beef,” Violet explained.

Earl's expression lightened. “Yep, that's a hamburger. We shape it in a flat circle, slap it in a bun, and eat it out of our hand. Kind of like the way you guys eat fish and chips. Except we don't eat them out of newspaper.”

“Maybe you should try the rissoles that way,” Elizabeth suggested.

Violet looked pleased. “Maybe I will.”

She disappeared again and Elizabeth smiled at Earl. “That was nice of you, considering they were pretty awful.”

“They weren't that bad.”

“Wait until you taste Violet's Woolton pie.” She told him about the comments that were made at the table when Violet served the pie, and was delighted by his hearty laughter. How she loved to make him laugh. If she could make him forget, even for a moment, the dreadful danger awaiting him, then any sacrifice she had to make was well worth while.

She would walk to the ends of the earth to make him happy. Even if it meant she could expect nothing in return. Just as long as she could be with him, like this. For she strongly suspected this was all she could ever have.

No matter how much she told herself that his pending divorce was the reason she couldn't allow their relationship to go any further, deep down she knew there was a more profound reason. It was her fear that held them at arm's length.

Fear of loving him too much and then losing him, fear of losing everything—her home, her heritage, her self-respect, her place in the community. She had so much to lose, and her fear was a chasm so wide she couldn't see across it, much less bridge it.

All she could do was make the most of every second she was in his company, and hope that the memories would be enough to sustain her during the long, empty years ahead without him.

His good-night kiss was bittersweet, and she hugged the memory of it until she fell asleep.

She awoke the next morning with the usual feeling of dread, and did her best to reassure herself. He had always come back. He would do so again.

She found Violet in her usual spot in the kitchen, at the stove with a cup of tea in one hand while she stirred porridge with the other.

Elizabeth greeted her and sat down at the table, reaching for the newspaper as was her habit. “Have you seen Martin this morning?” she murmured as she scanned the headlines. As usual, they were about the war and the slow, agonizing progress across France.

The photograph of a demolished airplane did nothing to calm her already jumpy nerves, and she raised her head sharply when Violet answered.

“You might as well know, Lizzie. Martin disappeared again last night. He hasn't slept in his bed. I looked in there half an hour ago and he wasn't there.”

Elizabeth laid down the newspaper with cold hands. “Where can he be? Where can he possibly go that would keep him out all night?”

“I'd like to know how he gets to where he's going,” Violet said, thumping the teakettle down a little too hard on the stove. “He can't walk any faster than a tortoise with lumbago. By the time he gets to the end of the driveway he's on his knees. He can't ride a bicycle or drive a car, even if he had one to drive.”

“What about the raffle ticket lady?” Elizabeth frowned. “I can't remember her name.”

“You mean Beatrice Carr?” Violet poured tea into a cup, then carried it in its saucer to the table, where she put it down in front of Elizabeth. “I haven't seen her in ages. What about her?”

“Well, she was always asking Martin to go with her somewhere. I just wondered if perhaps he was spending time with her.”

Violet's laugh was pure scorn. “Frightened to death of her, he is. He'd never go anywhere with that hussy. Besides, she rides on the bus from North Horsham. Martin wouldn't be able to walk that far to the bus stop in the village.” She shook her head. “Blinking mystery it all is, I tell you. Why won't he tell us where he's been? He must know we're worried about him, the silly old goat.”

“Well, either he's spending the night at the end of the driveway or someone is meeting him there in a car and taking him somewhere.”

Violet's hands jerked, spilling her tea down the sides of her cup. “I never thought of that. Who do you think it is, then? Who does he know that has a car?”

“I have no idea,” Elizabeth said quietly. “But one way or another, I intend to find out.”

 
“How many pairs of knickers did you bring?” Polly muttered as Sadie piled the underwear in the kitchen sink. “They can't be all yours.”

“They're not.” Sadie turned on the tap and filled the sink with cold water. “Some are mine, some are her ladyship's, and some are Violet's. I grabbed every pair I could find.”

Polly gasped. “You really went through Lady Elizabeth's drawers?”

“Why not? She'll thank me when we catch the thief. These are all clean, so all we have to do is get them wet, wring them out, and peg them on the line. They'll dry before your mum wakes up, unless the thief takes them, in which case, when we catch him, everyone will thank us.”

“Why do we have to get them all wet, anyway? Why can't we just hang them on the line dry?”

“Because the thief might be watching us hang them up and if he grabs them right away and finds them dry he'll know we're setting a trap for him and he'll scarper, won't he.”

“Well, Ma won't thank you for waking her up so keep your bloomin' voice down.” Polly sent a nervous glance at the door. Her mother was asleep in the bedroom at the top of the stairs. If she woke up and saw what they were doing there'd be hell to pay.

“All right,” Sadie muttered. “Here, help me wring these out.” She held out a dripping pair of navy blue bloomers.

Polly took them, wrinkling her nose. “These have to be Violet's. They must come down to her knees.”

“They do. I've seen them when she bends over.”

Polly giggled. “Go on. Whatcha doing staring at Violet's bloomers, then?”

“Can't miss them, can I.” Sadie took a pair of pink lace-trimmed drawers and twisted them in a knot.

“Don't you think we should put other washing on the line as well?” Polly squeezed with all her might. The wool bloomers were heavy and hard to wring out. “Won't the thief think it strange that there's only knickers on the line?”